


Mister Superstar

by casstayinmyass



Category: Antichrist Superstar - Marilyn Manson (Album), Marilyn Manson (Band), WKRP in Cincinnati
Genre: Anal Sex, Antichrist Superstar, Antichrist Superstar Era, Attraction, Bad Flirting, Bottom Manson, Bottoming from the Top, Canon Compliant, Crack Relationships, Crossover Pairings, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Is It The 70s or 90s? No One Knows, Les Being Les, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, One Night Stands, Sexual Tension, Top Johnny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: After a PR mix up, Marilyn Manson himself accidentally ends up on air at the down and out radio station, WKRP. Their morning DJ, Dr. Fever, doesn't realize his temperature's about to go up when Manson brings hell to Cincinatti.
Relationships: Johnny "Fever" Caravella/Marilyn Manson, Past Ginger Fish/Bailey Quarters, Twiggy Ramirez/Jennifer Marlowe





	Mister Superstar

**Author's Note:**

> I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY I THOUGHT OF THIS. Originally I was planning it as a Venus/Manson, but Johnny is a chaotic dumbass, and I really wanted to see this play out more.

Arthur Carlson sifted through the finance reports, thinking as best he could about what to do. As he tended to do when faced with a stressful decision, he handed the baton off to the program director.

“Travis? What should we do?” 

Andy Travis paced the office, finally leaning up against the wall. “We need a band.”

Carlson furrowed his brow. “Well, I always wanted to start a garage band, sure, but uh… now isn’t such a good time.”

Andy crossed his arms. “I mean, we need to bring a band in here to get on Johnny’s show. You know, someone hip. Someone people’ll tune in to listen to.”

“Ah, um, Paul Anka?” Carlson suggested.

Andy smiled curtly, snatching the reports from his boss’ hands. “No.”

“Well. How about that new folk act? What’s her name... that young Rose singer...”

Andy began to think. “Madison Melrose?”

“Yeah. I think I’ve heard of her before, seen her on billboards. The young people go crazy for her music, I’m told.”

Andy nodded. “You know, you may be on to something, sir. It won’t be easy, but it’s not impossible. I’ll get on the phones, have her bring one of her new records or something. It’ll be exclusive.”

“Yeah, I like that word, exclusive. Thanks, Travis.”

\---

Cincinatti woke up to the rising sun, and with it, the station began to bustle.

“Morning, Johnny,” Andy said, and the morning DJ grunted.

“He’s only on his first cup of coffee,” the pretty receptionist, Jennifer, explained. Andy nodded, following the blonde man into the booth.

“We’ve got someone in for today’s show, someone who’ll bring in better ratings for us.”

“Who could possibly do that? Ozzy Osbourne?” Johnny huffed. “Yeah, bring that guy in. I could use his, uh... personal arsenal of substances.” Andy simply grinned, patting the doorframe.

“Trust me. You’ll like this one even better.”

\---

“So, who the fuck is interviewing us at 8:30 in the morning?” a short guy with dreads muttered, as the band approached the station door. The tall man leading the group loosened his red scarf a little.

“They’re a local radio station. I thought it would be good publicity, since no other radio stations put us on the air.”

“Nobody’ll have us,” a man with a straight black bob of hair muttered, inspecting his nails.

“Everyone’s too scared of us,” the tall frontman corrected, and the satisfaction in his voice was hard to miss. The band’s singer swung the door open, and they all entered.

Jennifer looked up, prepared to greet a sweet little folk singer. Instead, she got a tribe of goth rockers. Never one to forget her manners though, no matter who she was talking to, Jennifer spoke gently.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Do you have the right building?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow with a small, amused smile.

“Yeah,” the frontman said, and took off his sunglasses. “This is WKRP?”

“Right,” Jennifer said slowly, then blinked. “You’re not... Madison Melrose, are you?” 

“Marilyn Manson,” Marilyn introduced himself, and jerked a thumb back as an afterthought. “This is my band.”

“Hey,” Pogo was the only one to speak up, pocketing a couple of pens as he did. Jennifer watched the bald man, and sighed.

“Okay. Just take a seat please.”

Herb walked in, and went to nod to whoever was sitting in the lobby.

“Morning.” When he saw them, he did a double take, and narrowed his eyes at them. He moved over to Jennifer as if on a covert mission, leaning in close. “Who... are they?”

“Spooks, Herb,” Jennifer smiled, “They’ve finally come for you.”

Herb swallowed his fear, and stood up straight, adjusting his tie in his perpetual attempt to make the receptionist swoon. “Ha. Well, they don’t scare me, whoever they are.”

“They shouldn’t. The tall one’s very polite.” She winked his way, and Marilyn gave a small nod back. Herb continued to watch them, as if they were extraterrestrials.

“Well, um. You all have fun,” he said, and quickly fled the scene, heading back to his desk. Andy and Carlson came walking down the hall, and Herb passed them. “Don’t look now, Big Guy, but you’ve got America’s dissatisfied youth sitting out there.”

“Wha-what?”

“Better let me handle it until they leave,” Andy reassured him. Andy checked the waiting room while Mr. Carlson hung back, and his mouth opened in confusion. “Uh... Madison Melrose?”

“Who the hell’s Madison Melrose?” Zimmy asked.

“And does she give out free blowjobs?” Twiggy murmured. Pogo doubled over laughing, and Marilyn gave them scathing glares.

“We’re Marilyn Manson,” he corrected once again.

“Ah huh.” Andy approached them. “Look, boys... I’m real sorry. I’m sure you’re good kids--”

“I’m sure we’re not,” Marilyn responded, crossing his legs.

“I’m 25,” Twiggy whispered.

“—But there must have been some kind of misunderstanding. See, our program today is featuring Miss Melrose.” He turned to Jennifer. “What happened to that?” 

“Looks like there was some kind of mix-up with the names when you were booked.”

“Great,” Zimmy muttered.

Jennifer blinked her doe eyes up at him. “You _know_ it wasn’t my fault.”

Andy got hot under the collar. “No, no, Jennifer. Of course not.” Satisfied, the blonde checked her schedule.

“If they don’t go on Andy, I’m afraid there’ll be no one for the morning show.”

Andy sighed, glancing at the band’s dark attire. “What kind of music do you guys play?”

“Rock and roll.”

“That fits our bill well enough. Come on in.”

Just as they were getting up, Les came in. “Good morning,” he started to say, then yelped. “Good merciful god! _Satanists_!”

Marilyn was unable to resist another smirk at the small, worried man. “At least you didn’t call us Christians.”

Les tried to curve around them, speaking to Jennifer and Andy. “The day of reckoning is finally here! People like _them_ are what’s wrong with today’s society!”

“Oh hell, Les is already talking about today’s society,” Johnny sighed, coming out for a second cup of coffee, “It’s gonna be one of those days, huh?”

He stopped, locking eyes with Marilyn. The singer looked the DJ up and down, pursing his painted lips. He wasn’t bad looking. A little washed up, but there was something about his attitude that Marilyn was attracted to. Johnny seemed to shrug off any preconceived notions, and came forward.

“Miss... Mister? Melrose? A pleasure.” He cocked his head. “Nice dress. You changed since I last saw you on TV. Went a little darker, I like it, that’s very groovy of you. What are the kids calling it? Goth?”

“Sacrilegious!” Les offered from the other room.

“Thank you for your input Les,” Johnny deadpanned, and looked around. “Are these your charming pallbearers?”

“Maz, what are we doing here?” Twiggy whispered, tugging his friend’s sleeve, “I thought you said this would be big.”

“Jeordie, sit down,” Manson muttered. Johnny grabbed another coffee mug.

“Want some?”

“No thanks. I don’t drink coffee.” Marilyn sauntered over. “Not since I saw a stillborn fetus inside a coffee can.”

Johnny grimaced, setting down his own cup. “That would do it.”

“I prefer to start my day with a healthy serving of narcotics,” Marilyn smiled, “You know, the four food groups? Cocaine, amphetamines, marijuana, and LSD.”

Johnny finally burst out laughing, his sunglasses sliding down his nose. “I like this guy, man. Girl. Dude, human. It’s a little early to get personal, but mind clarifying that for me, so things don’t get awkward on air?”

“What, if I’m a human?”

“No, what you wanna be called.”

“My name’s Marilyn Manson,” Marilyn said, holding out a hand. Johnny looked down at his chipped nail polish. “I’m whatever you want me to be.” Johnny nodded, grasping his hand to shake.

“I can dig that. I’m Fever. Doctor Johnny Fever.”

The two held the handshake a little too long, and Johnny finally let go, looking down and fumbling a little.

“Uhh... well, I’ll start the interview in T-minus ten, after the news. Gotta chug this fast, so I can wake up my larynx enough to introduce you.” Johnny walked back to the booth, and Marilyn watched after him.

_Interesting._

“There’s only room for two of you in there,” Andy said, keeping his eye on Pogo, who was now seated again and rocking back and forth. “Manson—can I call you Manson?”

“That’s my name.”

“—We’ll get you in, obviously. Is there a second in command?”

“Actually I’ll, um, stay out here,” Twiggy said, unable to take his eyes off Jennifer’s breasts. She didn’t seem to be shying away from his advances either... yet.

Marilyn checked behind him. Ginger didn’t talk much, Pogo talked _too_ much, and Zimmy... well, Zimmy would probably try to take the airtime to convince the population of Cincinnati to become vegetarian, so he’d better go it alone. Besides, being in a small room with that disc jockey wasn’t a bad deal. Even if it was an ungodly hour, Manson’s libido never slept.

“Just me,” Marilyn told Andy, and Andy nodded. Carlson finally came to the front, sipping his coffee.

“Oh,” he gulped. “Hello. You must be the Satanists.” He looked to Jennifer for guidance.

“Just smile and wave, sir.”

“Uh huh,” Carlson smiled, and waved. Ginger waved back. Les came bounding back down the hall, paper in hand.

“You have to speak their _language_ sir, in order to assert dominance and get them to back down!” Clearing his throat, he read from the paper he had printed out in his newscaster voice. “Rock on, mother-fuckers. Did you hear that ‘shredding’ I did? Absolutely brutal. Very metal, indeed. Hail Satan.”

“Uh, yes. Hail Satan,” Carlson smiled at them, then as Pogo hailed back, did a double take. “W-wait!”

“It’s okay, Mr. Carlson,” Jennifer gave the inept boss a reassuring smile, “We’ll take it from here.” Carlson looked down, and walked into his office.

Inside the booth, Johnny sighed. “Did they at least bring a record for me to spin?” Andy nodded.

“Here, here... it’s called, uh...” he looked a little queasy, reading the title. “Antichrist... Superstar. Now Johnny, it looks hip, a little morbid maybe, but it also seems like it’s got some questionable—”

“We don’t have time to worry about that now, I’ll do what I can to censor it, man. Get him in here.”

 _And may “Satan” help me keep it in my pants,_ he thought to himself with a deep breath, flicking the frequency switch on.

\---

Over at his desk, Herb frowned at Les. “Where did that cross come from?”

“What, this old thing?” Les asked, gesturing to the stupidly large crucifix he had placed right on the edge of his desk, “I’ve had it out forever.”

“Wasn’t there yesterday.”

“Of course it was, Herb. I’m a devout, God fearing man.” He placed a statue of the Pope on his desk as well as Herb watched, daring him with his eyes to say anything. Herb just snorted, putting up his hands.

“ _Okay_ -fine.”

Les lowered his voice to a whisper. “ _It’s to protect myself from those misguided hoodlums out there!”_

“Right, I get you.” He did not, in fact, get Les. Nor would he ever.

Herb craned his neck to see out into the waiting room. He could faintly see one of those ‘misguided hoodlums’ standing by the reception desk... the one with the black dreadlocks. If he wasn’t so busy building a house of cards over top of his files and pretending to work, he’d go out and make sure Jennifer wasn’t fraternizing with those guys. Rock star types only wanted one thing. So did Herb, but at least he was classy about it. Maybe if he teased his hair a little, wore some lipstick like those guys, she would notice him...

Bailey came in at the front, and blushed immediately. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Jennifer asked her, handing her the papers she just dropped.

“Oh, I, uh...”

“Here, let me get that,” Ginger offered, and bent down to pick up the last remaining page. Bailey got even redder when she met his eyes.

“Oh, thanks. Gee, you’re... wow.”

“What is it, Bailey?” Jennifer began to smile.

“That’s...” she hissed, and grinned, tilting her head toward them.

“You’re a fan?”

“Well, no! Well... yes. I mean, I...” She went even redder, and nearly screamed when she turned and came face to face with Marilyn himself. “W-When I was a teenager, I...”

“Yes?” Jennifer encouraged the shy ingénue. 

“I went to one of your shows,” she sheepishly admitted to Marilyn as if she was in confession. He smirked at her.

“If I pissed and or came on your face, I wholeheartedly apologize.”

“Oh heck, oh geez,” Bailey ducked her head, and breezed past all of them, muttering to herself and biting her lip. Jennifer watched after her, trying to imagine the mousy girl all in black with piercings and such as a teenager.

“You know, I remember her,” Twiggy suddenly said, “We were on tour opening for Trent. She was the one who wanted us to sign her back.”

“Oh,” Ginger whispered, blushing harder than Bailey had. He remembered just what they had done that night, the two of them. Jennifer held up perfectly manicured nails, inspecting them.

“I _don’t_ want to know.”

Andy finally came back out and ushered Marilyn into the booth. He sat down, folding his hands over his knee.

“Good morning, you sizzling boys and girls, the Doctor is in! You won’t believe your ears this morning, Doctor Johnny Fever’s got someone that’ll help with the chills and get you sick with those rock and roll blues! But first, the news.”

Les came into the booth, papers in hand and refusing to look at Manson. He adjusted the mic, and leaned forward.

“This is Les Nessman, with the morning news! Reports of a young boy who went berserk and caused serious harm to his family have come in, and allegedly, he had been listening to aggressive rock music for weeks in advance. Interesting!” He stared pointedly at Manson. As Les went on describing the story, Johnny joined the guest, whispering, “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“I mean, Les is a little high-strung, but he’s never this rude. And I don’t know where all his religious bullshit came from… he normally never mentions it. I really am sorry.”

“Really, it’s okay. Right now, I’m public enemy number one. I’m basically a poster boy for fear.”

“I guess that boosts your image, huh? Sells more tickets?”

Manson smirked. “You could say that. That’s not why I do it.”

“Why do you do it?”

“To make people think.”

“Excuse me,” Les cuts in, flipping the switch for a moment, “If you would kindly keep it down, I am _on the air.”_

Johnny put his hands up, and took his seat again as Les launched into the sports news, then the agricultural news.

“The sows this year are turning out very healthy!” Les reported happily, and Manson leaned in across to Johnny, grazing his finger thoughtfully against his chin.

"Is he talking about pigs?" 

"Believe it or not." 

“I rode a pig once.”

“What?”

“Yeah, for a music video.”

“No way, man.”

“Would you _please_ keep it down?!” Les snapped. About two minutes later, he wrapped up with a little closing statement. “—And remember, if you don’t like the music we’re playing, you can always call in and comp—”

“Thanks for the news Les, let’s hop to it,” Johnny cut in, flipping his switch, “Here we have him, for better or for worse, the Antichrist himself to wreak havoc on Cincinnati—Marilyn Manson!”

“Hey Fever,” Marilyn said into the mic. Johnny ignored his own chills he got from hearing his name drawled out like that.

“Manson, what’re you doing in Cincinnati, man?”

“We’re actually playing a show here tonight.”

“Right on. Hear that folks? These guys are in the area if you wanna get down and dirty tonight. Now Manson, you’ve just got a new record out?”

“Yeah, Antichrist Superstar.”

“We’ve got it right here folks, and it looks very... very groovy. Can you tell me what your influences for the record were?”

“Uh, I’d say a lot of things and a lot of people. Trent Reznor helped us produce, but a lot of my own creative inspiration came from people like Anton LaVey, and the idea of birth, rebirth, destruction, and our place in the world as a force for revolution.”

“That’s pretty right on.”

“Thank you.”

“Get those ouijia boards out Cincinnati, and let’s give it a spin!” He looked at Manson. “You’re the guest, you get to pick the track.”

Manson folded his hands in his lap smugly. “Let’s do it the old fashioned way, take it from the top. That should give everyone a real, uh… a real shock.”

“You hear that, Cincinnati? Get your conductors out and turn on the electricity, cause here comes…” He swallowed as he read the back of the record sleeve. “…Irresponsible Hate Anthem, straight from your favourite station, WKRP.”

Johnny let the needle go on the record, and turned off the output sound. He wasn’t going to worry about the content of the song until he absolutely had to—aka when angry mothers started calling the station and Andy busted in here.

“You’re very trusting,” Manson said.

“I’m just lazy. I don’t personally care what you’ve got on there—Cincinnati’s dead, it could use the shock.” He looked Manson up and down again, hoping his sunglasses concealed where his eyes were roaming.

“Good. I’m pretty great at shocking, if the past three years have been anything to go by.”

“You remind me of me.”

“How so?”

“I was fired from my last job as a disc jockey, for saying booger on air.”

“At least you didn’t say fuck, like my record's about to.”

Johnny laughed. “You're funny, man. Do you… wanna grab breakfast after this? Or… brunch, or whatever it is?”

“I’ve got soundcheck with my band after this,” Manson said, and Johnny fought away the disappointment.

“Oh yeah. Right. Naw, that’s—”

“But I’d love dinner.”

Johnny began to smile. “You don’t strike me as a dinner and a movie type actually.”

“I am a dinner and movie type, I love food, and I love movies.” Manson shrugged. “More like McDonald’s and The Exorcist, but…”

“I know a great little diner just down the way.”

“Sounds great.”

Johnny tried to introduce the next song on the record while his brain was processing what happened. Did he just make a date with America’s public enemy number one? And how was he supposed to afford this date when he was probably about to be fired for playing this damn record uncensored?!

“I’ll pay,” Manson eased his thoughts.

“Yeah, thank you.”

The door to the booth was flung open, and Andy popped his head in, horrified. “Do you know how many calls we’re getting?!”

“Good or bad?”

“Well…” Andy stammered, “Any press is good press for us. But Herb’s trying to keep our investors at bay, and Les is raving around about ‘I told you so.’”

“So bottom line it. You want me to get it off the air?” Johnny asked, raising his eyebrows. Travis looked back and forth between Johnny and Manson, and mopped his forehead. 

“No. Leave it on, see what happens.”

\---

Johnny looked at the time, drinking his fifth cup of coffee of the day. He wished he could get away from the station to go to Manson’s show. Surprise him, maybe. Was he being clingy? Yeah. That would look super clingy. He normally never gave two shits about his partner, but this one was sticking in his mind like people like Marilyn Manson _would_.

“You okay?” Bailey asked as Johnny got up to refill his cup.

“Yeah, kid. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look so fine.”

Johnny glanced over and sighed. No one else was around… he guessed he could confide in his closest friend at the station. “I’m a little nervous.”

“You? Nervous?”

“Remember that group that came in here this morning?” Bailey blushed, and Johnny noticed it. “What’s… what’s that, what’s that blush?”

“I—”

“No, no no. You’ve gotta tell me now.”

“A bunch of years ago I went to a concert of theirs, had them sign my back.”

“You?”

“Look, what’s got you nervous? _That’s_ what this is about.”

“No, I can ask you for advice! What’s he actually like?”

“Who, Manson? I don’t know… his drummer was always my favourite.”

Johnny took his coffee, sitting down and mulling over the evening. He was normally so charming, but with Manson, he was like a teenage girl. He supposed the guy was used to that.

Finally, when his shift was over, he headed to the diner, ruffling his blonde hair into a respectable mess, and sat down at a booth. He waited a bit, looking at his watch, and worried for a moment that the rock star had forgotten. Then someone opened the door.

Manson walked in, to find Johnny already seated at a table. He had gotten into a black long sleeved shirt, black pants, and had his lips done in a muted purple, eyes smokey and plum with a touch of silver glitter.

"Came right from the show?" Johnny asked.

"Nah, I cleaned up a little," Manson smirked, gesturing to his clothes, "Consider yourself one of the lucky ones."

"Oh, I do. Things must get pretty sweaty up there."

"Yeah. It's nice to get sweaty."

"Ain't that the truth?" Johnny huffed, "I once went a week without changing my shirt. Landlord turned off my water, forced me to finally pay up."

"I'm sure your, uh... your boss there, Andy was his name? Was really happy about your lack of clean clothes."

Johnny grinned. "Travis is used to me. They all are. I just don’t give a damn, and they know it."

"It's nice to be well liked, huh? You don't answer to anyone." Manson gave a smug smile. "Anyway. Shows are great and all, but they aren't my favourite way to get sweaty."

Johnny let out an amused huff of disbelief. "I can guess how you like to get sweaty." He quickly jumped to the next topic, rubbing the back of his neck. "You took the time to do your makeup again, though."

"Yeah. It looked shitty after the show. Always does." Manson ducked his head with what seemed to be the flicker of a bashful smile, and Johnny marvelled at how soft a personality he had, compared to the snarling voice on that record he had played at work today. "Have you already ordered drinks?" Manson broke through his thoughts.

"I don't know what you drink. All I know about you is that you don't drink coffee. I feel like I'd get it wrong."

"What do you think I drink?"

"You know man, after hearing your music today I'd say blood. But now?" Johnny studied him. "I'd say it's all an act."

Manson cocked his head. "I don't separate the person and the persona. I like to think of myself as the antichrist, onstage and off, because I still spread the same type of controversial beliefs through other mediums in my life. Just because I'm not telling the waitress to fuck off and smashing plates like a monkey, doesn't mean I've got any less Manson in me." He leaned forward. "Look at you-- Johnny Fever. He's still a part of you when you're off the air. Doesn't mean you're as smooth talking as he is off the clock." A cheeky smirk accompanied his last jab, and Johnny put his hands up.

"Point taken. So, you drink vodka, or...?"

"Close enough. I'll take an absinthe."

Johnny's eyebrows raised over his sunglasses. "Jeez, okay. That stuff’s... different."

"I'm just impressed that you know what absinthe is."

"Hey. Beyond my life as the coolest "smooth talking" disc jockey Cincinnati has ever seen, I am a man of culture."

"I'm glad you are, cause I'm white trash through and through."

"Yeah?"

"Grilled cheese and ketchup, God's gift to his sheep on earth."

"I've got to agree. There's nothing like a good grilled cheese when life fucks you in the ass." Manson raised what would be his eyebrows at the choice of expression, and Johnny realized what he said. "As a manner of speaking." His voice cracked.

The DJ ordered the drinks, getting a beer for himself, and ordered the food along with it-- two grilled cheese combos with fries. Once the food came, conversation dwindled to a minimum as they enjoyed their greasy meals like animals. Drink after drink came as they ordered away and put them down like the professional lushes they were, but years of acid tripping, substance abuse and drunken stupors could not have prepared Johnny how radiant Manson looked, and that wasn't just the beer talking. After a bout of silence, Johnny leaned forward, racking his brain for the usual customary small talk. What could assure this beautiful young guy that he was interesting, he wasn't wasting his time? That he was worth the attention? That he wasn't just another old dud?

Then he stopped himself. Since when was he the bullshit conformist? Fuck that. He wasn't about to go out of his way to impress someone. Even if that someone was the hottest prospective one night's stand he'd ever encountered. He sat back against the booth cushions, as Manson echoed his sentiments.

"Look," the rock star said slowly, wiping his fingers on the napkin, "Before we order anything else. I think expectations are something you and I have both gone through too many times to pretend anymore. I don't think either of us are the wait-til-second-date types."

Relieved, Johnny exhaled. "God, you have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that. Let's get out of here."

\--

Johnny knocked on the station door three times, and waited. Manson loomed above him from behind, pattering his painted fingernails against the wall.

"Sorry we couldn't go back to mine..."

"Let me guess. Your landlord?" The rock star asked the DJ.

"You got it," Johnny admitted. "I'll get the keys back in about a week, when he starts feeling bad for me again."

Finally, footsteps shuffled over, and another disc jockey opened the door. He was about as tall as Manson, and wore flashy clothes similar to his. He didn't seem happy about the interruption, though.

"Fever? Just get in here. Who's that?"

"Baby, that's Marilyn Manson," a girl behind Venus gasped.

Venus looked between her and Manson, frowning at him. "You're the one we played today, right?"

"Yeah," Manson nodded, bracing himself for the same old shit. But the night DJ just nodded, a sort of respect passing between the two.

"Venus," he shook Manson's hand.

"Good to meet you, Venus."

“Your music, it’s… a little out there. I like that. Keep doin’ what you do, man.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

"I'M Vivica, it is GREAT to meet you!" the girl came forward, shaking Manson’s hand too. "If you ever need anyone, I'm a singer too!"

"As a matter of fact, we're starting to plan our next record, and we're looking for some backup soul singers for a couple tracks..."

Venus sighed. "Baby, just get back to the booth, alright? I got a really special set up in there tonight, candlelight and everything."

"You better give him my number, or I'm never coming back. You look like you stole his outfit too, what you dressing sparkly like Manson for anyway…?”

“Baby, please—"

Manson just smirked as Johnny lead him into the darkened station, past the booth that was lit up with candles for a particularly romantic night shift, and toward the storage room.

"Tight spaces, huh?" Manson asked, "Kinky."

"I'm sure you've done the deed in weirder places," Johnny said, leading Manson through the room, to his hidden cot.

"I plead the fifth," Manson said. Before Johnny could make a move, Manson slid his hands over Johnny shoulders, and turned him around, sealing your lips together. Johnny didn't think he'd ever felt anything like it.

"You like to take control, huh?" Johnny laughed nervously. Manson began taking off his shirt with the swaggering confidence Johnny expected he would.

"Now and then." Manson's tone was demure, and Johnny really didn't want to have to ask this point blank.

"Are you... do you wanna be the...?"

"You mean, do I wanna put my dick in your ass, or vice versa?" Manson asked, successfully tossing his shirt off, "I'm not picky. But since you seem like a little scared... I'll be nice, and let you fuck me."

"Thank you?" Johnny croaked. _Come on, Fever. Pull it together, he's into you! You're the Doctor! You're a fucking legend, just like him. Now act it!_ "You won't regret it," Johnny added a little more suavely, and fuck, that was stupid, but Manson just twisted his lips up at the cheesy line, starting to unbuckle his belt. After getting his pants off, he walked Johnny backward, peeling layers of the DJ's clothes off, and finally pushed him down, straddling his hips.

"Gonna prep me, then?" Manson whispered, grazing his lips down Johnny's neck.

"Yeah," Johnny muttered, and dug around until he found lube under his cot. He reached down, and once he had a finger, then two, inside the rock star, Manson began to moan.

"You like that?" Johnny asked, gaining his confidence, "You're desperate for it, huh? You love feeling stretched out like this."

"Yeah," Manson breathed, eyes rolling back. Johnny surprised himself by tugging the younger man's long, pretty hair.

"You want something bigger?"

"Need it."

"Uh huh?"

"Fucking give it to me."

"Say please."

God help Johnny, the supposed Antichrist whined.

"Please, Fever," he groaned, biting his stained lips, "Make me yours."

Johnny positioned himself, rolled on a condom he found on the floor, and Manson sank down on him, mouth falling open. His lithe, pale body arched to an angle that would be impossible for Johnny to achieve, flexible spine bending as he sat back on thin legs.

"You're so beautiful." The words tumbled gracelessly from Johnny's mouth, as Manson gripped the older man's thighs.

"You're sweet," Manson growled, "I hate sweet." Johnny tossed his head back, giving the rock star everything he had, and Manson's nails began to dig. "Tell me I'm good," Manson asked, batting his eyelashes, "Tell me just how good I am." He leaned down to slide his fingers around Johnny's neck, and Johnny exhaled, staring up into burning eyes.

"You're so good, baby," Johnny breathed, "You're doing so good. Taking it so well."

"Tell me I'm your fucking whore," Manson growled, jerking himself off, and Johnny groaned, giving a few deep thrusts.

"You're such a whore, baby. You're a dirty little whore, a fucking slut for my cock. You feel so good, but I can tell you're broken in. How many guys have you gotten fucked by, huh?"

"Ah..." Manson's mouth split wide in a dubious smile, eyes rolling back again.

"I bet you give it up to anyone who calls you pretty. Or hot. Or strokes your ego a little. Tells you how sexy, or evil you are... I bet you bend over for everyone."

"Fever, Fever, fuck--"

"Come on down a little closer, cause the doctor can make you feel real good." Manson dropped down onto Johnny's chest, lost in the pleasure, and Johnny held him tight, fucking him to completion. Manson wriggled, swore and shouted through his climax, a sight so arousing that Johnny couldn't keep his own orgasm at bay. As he was about to cum, Manson got off of him, crawled down, ripped the condom off, and wrapped his lips around Johnny's dick.

"Jesus fuck," the DJ moaned, and as the singer deepthroated him, he came hard. Manson sat up between his legs, smoothing his hair out of his face, and Johnny... he couldn't move. Manson stretched, resembling something like a poisonous spider as he came back up to Johnny.

"I’m ready for another round if you can get it up again.”

\---

Jennifer sat at her desk, filing her nails. Most of the group had yet to come in, but she was busy smiling at the number that bass guitarist had left her, on an empty, suspicious looking baggie.

Mr. Carlson walked in. "Oh. Morning Jennifer. Have you seen Travis? Travis?! I have to talk to you about that record we played on the radio yesterday!"

Andy came out from the back, a manilla file in his hands. "So do I, Mr. Carlson. We haven't seen ratings like that in the history of WKRP!"

"Yes well, mother called and she..." Mr. Carlson paused. "Uh, w-what?"

"Everyone's going crazy over the fact that we played Marilyn Manson on the radio!"

"They are?" Carlson murmured.

"Yes sir."

"Well then, we should get him back. Right? Jennif--"

"On it, sir."

Suddenly, the storage room door opened, and out sauntered the man himself, straightening his lapels. Johnny stumbled out after him, hair askew and lips swollen. The DJ slipped on his sunglasses, as if that would help him disappear under everyone’s radar.

"Oh uh, Marilyn. You're still here. Good," Carlson nodded, ignoring the bafflement of the rest of his employees, "Do you happen to have any more music we can play?"

"I think I can muster something up," Manson smirked.

The door to the station opened again, to reveal Herb, dressed in tight black pants and a black sequined tank top, with outlandish lipstick and eyeshadow on.

"Who's that?" Carlson whispered to Andy, as the program director tried to suppress his laughter.

"Morning, Jennifer," Herb said, strutting past the desk. She blinked at him.

"Herb. What exactly is that you've got on?"

"Oh, this old thing? I was cleaning out my closet, figured I'd give it one last run before I retired it."

"Same goes for the eyeshadow?" she pressed. 

Les came out from the back, stapling some papers as he walked, and nearly dropped everything when he saw their salesman.

"Oh, no!" he cried, backing away, "They've _gotten_ to you!" He ran off in search of his crucifix, and Manson chuckled, turning to the blonde.

"You know, a day at your station's wilder than a day on my tour bus."

Johnny lifted his coffee mug, replaying all that they had just done in his mind. "Somehow, man? I find that hard to believe." 


End file.
